


The Delights of Agony

by chewysugar



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Fingering, Angst, Bottom Sam, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Fear, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, Love, M/M, Relationship Issues, Restraints, Top Lucifer (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-23
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 09:37:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15771483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewysugar/pseuds/chewysugar
Summary: When Lucifer goes too far, something like fear stirs in Sam's soul. It's only in the aftermath that he realizes there's more to what they have than he's assumed.





	The Delights of Agony

**Author's Note:**

> I'm baaaaaack.

Anyone would be afraid of the Devil. But not anyone knows the Devil the way Sam knows him. Lucifer is Sam’s Devil—has been since Sam was a baby, really. He’s been branded, owned and blooded since before he had a concept of good and evil. For years he’s outrun the fire and darkness. Only now, after giving in, has he understood the futility in that action. Better to give into the Devil you know than fight against the one that you don’t.

Sam knows Lucifer well--or does Lucifer know Sam? Whatever the case, it’s intimate in every which way. Lucifer has been a part of him, been within him and without. He thinks he understands the way the man—the being—works. He thinks that he trusts Lucifer, because he has to—why else would he be here, like this, spread open and wanting like the cheapest of whores?

Only sometimes—like now—he’s scared. This is Lucifer—the Devil; Satan; the Prince of Darkness, Lord of the Flies…Lucifer might have layers, and Sam might have been able to peel some of those layers back this last little while. But he’s still the Devil.

It’s thrilling. Who the hell wouldn’t want to claim responsibility for seeing the man behind the black, black eyes? And Lucifer has taken him to places Sam didn’t even dare to dream about. He’s done things that go beyond the realm of physical pleasure—touched Sam’s soul, brought the best kind of pleasure and pain to the core of his being. He’s made a mess of Sam, and then cleaned him up with the gentleness of something like a lover.

But still, it’s times like this when he’s got Sam opened and exposed like he’s nothing more than an object of pure lust, that fear sets in. Even through the tremors and the heat, his heart quickens. Doubt casts its shadow over his mind. Through heavy eyes, he watches his Devil plume the intimate depths of his body. He can’t move against the restraints at his wrists and ankles; can’t turn his head. Instruments of torture transformed for the sake of gratification—Lucifer’s, not Sam’s—wreak delicious havoc on his nipples, his cock, his balls. Every erogenous zone is afire.

It burns white hot, that flame. Lucifer’s fingers and tongue feel as though they’re everywhere. He’s in his human form this time, but that’s only a small mercy. He can still play with Sam in ways that nobody—that nothing—else can possible achieve.

That’s what it is to him: play. Sam is his toy, his willing piece to use how he sees fit. And he’s seeing fit to push farther, to delve deeper with more fingers than Sam has ever taken. He feels stretched more than he ever has. He can only squirm so much, into each thrust, away from the dread coiling in his stomach along with the mounting orgasm.

Perhaps Lucifer is making him feel the fear. That thought only sends Sam further into the abyss of hellish abandon. He wants to be used like this—he’s sure he’s said it before. He wants to be an eternal slave to these sensations—to be the willing strumpet of the Beast.

Suddenly he feels the pressure stretching him grow. His eyes fly open, and he looks down; down at his bare, sweaty, precum soaked body; down, at the red marks along his thighs where Lucifer’s nails and teeth marked him.

He can’t take what’s happening. He knows he can’t. There’s pain and then there’s this. A whimper escapes him; he searches Lucifer’s smirking face, trying to beg without actually begging.

Lucifer’s eyes only darken.

Sam’s heart skips a beat. The Demon King is going to refuse. He’ll hurt him, the way he used to hurt him before they became whatever this fucked up roundelay of sex and submission is.

It isn’t just the pain of having his body invaded so brutally—so goddamn pornographically. It’s that Lucifer doesn’t seem to notice the excruciating pain—that he doesn’t appear to give a damn. For moments that feel like hours, Sam feels completely shattered—utterly broken in every way. He thinks…well, he doesn’t really know what he thinks. That Lucifer somehow thought of him as more than what Sam has willingly let himself be? That he’s really just a human receptacle for Lucifer’s own body and hellish whims?

The pressure disappears. Sam basks in the emptiness for a few split seconds. Then Lucifer has his fist tightly gripped around Sam’s leaking cock. He isn’t gentle as he jerks Sam off. The restraints and toys all disappear and fall away. Sam’s knees give way as the hot heat rolls through him. He comes hard and sloppy. White stickiness coats Lucifer’s hands and his stomach as Sam collapses against him.

And he holds Sam. Truly holds him as the shockwaves subside. He’s got his lips pressed against Sam’s ear, whispering to him. “There you go, baby. Yeah…just like that…you’re okay…” One of his big hands is smoothing circles in Sam’s aching shoulders.

Sam could almost laugh. Lucifer is comforting him, coaxing him into relaxing because he truly does care. He wouldn’t have let up if he didn’t—would have just left Sam in sticky, shivering disarray on the floor of wherever they are. But he’s here, holding Sam—loving him.

Lucifer tilts Sam’s chin. Eyes like lightning trapped in amber hold his gaze. His breath is warm, his smile oddly comforting. But then again, Sam’s used to the fact that he’s sought comfort in the arms of pure evil. It doesn’t bother him or unsettle him like it used to. The memory of that fear he felt while trussed and fucked is just that—a memory. A ghost, exorcised now by the arms of his own personal everything.

Lips that burn like the warmth of a fire on a winter’s night brush against Sam’s. It’s not a demanding kiss; it’s soft—delicate as a touch of wings.

“You good?” The contrition on Lucifer’s face seals it in Sam’s mind. He didn’t ever intend to cause him that kind of torment or panic.

“Yeah.” He presses his forehead against the stable strength of Lucifer’s shoulder.

“I do you okay?”

Sam tries this thing where he makes to insinuate his skin as close to Lucifer’s as possible. Ordinary people would call such an action “snuggling” when applied to a lover. But Sam isn’t ordinary people. Not here. Never here. With the Devil.

“Yes,” he sighs. He feels the unyielding hardness of Lucifer’s impressive length. The rosy crown, slick with the Lord of Hell’s own desperate need, all but oozes under Sam’s gaze. Even though his muscles feel like mud, he takes his Devil in hand, and slowly, languidly strokes.

“Mmm,” Lucifer sighs. His words are spoken softly, barely above a whisper—like a breeze as they ghost against Sam’s ear. “Don’t go faster. Don’t go harder.”

“You sure?”

“Fuck yes. I’m on a hair trigger, baby.”

Judging from the way Lucifer’s balls are tightening, Sam can well believe that.

He keeps his eyes on the sight of his hand around Lucifer’s dick. He wants to see this—he’s earned the right to see this.

“Hope you didn’t mind—mph—the extra mile back there.” Lucifer groans.

“Don’t worry about it.” Sam says it to smooth things over. But because he’s a Winchester and can’t leave things be until they’re a flaming wreck, he admits his fear. “I just…for a second, y’know…thought you wouldn’t stop.”

Lucifer tenses. But not because he’s going to come. Sam’s been with him too long to be ignorant of the minuscule details in the way Lucifer moves and reacts. He’s frozen with something—fear or anger, Sam can’t tell. All he knows is that it’s nothing good.

One second they’re on what could be called the ground, in this formless dimension made for their purpose. Sam’s got his fingers around the length that has brought him so much pleasure.

Then everything changes. Things amorphous become solid. Smells fill his nose. They’re in the middle of the kitchen in the bunker. From the living room, the sounds of a Game of Thrones episode alert Sam to the fact that Dean is home—less than fifty feet away, separated by wall, while his little brother kneels naked and cum stained in the room where they have their breakfast, with the Devil standing over him.

Lucifer, equally naked, looks down at Sam, but he’s not angry, and that’s worse than a knife between the ribs.

“See Sammy.” The cold, mocking, superiority is back in his voice again. “This is why we’ll never settle down.” Then he turns and walks away. A flash of fire later, and he’s gone, leaving Sam exactly where he was afraid of ending up—broken in a heap on the ground.

People fear Satan. They fear being hurt by him. Sam’s been there, done that and written several books on the subject. He’s felt the dread and, at times, the terror. Yet somehow it failed to dawn on him that the thing he really feared was the turnabout—that he’d be the one to hurt Lucifer. Which, as he leans, naked and alone, against the cold kitchen table, is exactly what he just did.

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you think!


End file.
